


Stranger Inside

by 2am_limbo



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Sherlock, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Self-Harm, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Whump, Sherlock-centric, self-injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 15:16:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10573974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2am_limbo/pseuds/2am_limbo
Summary: If Sherlock had to verbally explain to someone why he does it, he would be unable to do so. It doesn’t make much sense, really. It truly doesn’t. He honestly doesn’t know. Maybe it’s a combination of things that he still doesn’t know how to comprehend even after all of these years, and that makes Sherlock uncomfortable enough as it is.WARNING: this fic is about self-harm. Please do not read if this is a trigger for you or makes you uncomfortable. See the notes for more details.





	

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This fic is about self-harm. Of course, if this is something that you struggle with and/or if this is triggering for you, please do not read. There aren't any explicit descriptions of injuries, it's mostly all thought processes, but still. I tried to think of all relevant tags, but if there's some I forgot, please let me know.
> 
> I live with some mental health issues, and self-harm is something that I have struggled with for years. The thoughts and rationalizations that Sherlock has here are actually things that I have always thought -- how things make sense to me (or don't make sense, rather) -- and things unfolded for him how they unfolded for me when I was a kid. I've never felt like I related to other people's explanations of why they self-harm or the rationale behind it, and I found that writing this kind of helped. So, maybe there's someone out there who has felt the same.

If Sherlock had to verbally explain to someone _why_ he does it, he would be unable to do so. It doesn’t make much sense, really. It truly doesn’t. He’s always heard it simply explained away by _it helps to turn the emotional pain into something physical, something tangible, something you can work with_ , but Sherlock doesn’t like that notion. He honestly doesn’t know. Maybe it’s a combination of things that he still doesn’t know how to comprehend even after all of these years, and that makes Sherlock uncomfortable enough as it is.

Maybe Sherlock likes the pain, maybe that’s one thing. Maybe it is about _control_ , that the act of causing that pain is one thing that Sherlock _can_ control. Maybe he likes _seeing_ the evidence. Sherlock doesn’t know. All of the explanations he has ever been able to come up with haven’t seemed correct or relevant to him. If Sherlock is being honest, though, he doesn’t know because every time he’s ever gotten the urge to hurt himself, he’s also always detached from himself, too. It’s never happened intentionally, but it’s a pattern that he’s noticed over the years. He doesn’t understand the reasons why because he’s never _there_ to think it through, and when he comes back to himself, there’s… nothing. There’s nothing there to think through. No pieces to fit together or to untangle, nothing there to dissect. It just is. It’s something that’s been a part of him since he was young. It’s been talked about repeatedly over the years with numerous doctors and therapists with and without his family, and yet… nothing.

Sherlock remembers how it started, the very first time. Sherlock was thirteen and in the midst of a rather severe bout of depression, almost catatonically so. Mummy had pleaded with him to please let her take him to a doctor, and in the end, he gave in just so that she would leave him _alone_. At the time, the doctor believed they only needed to treat the depression, that nothing else was involved, and so he was given an anti-depressant. There was no question or discussion about bipolar disorder or any other mood disorders, nothing along the autism spectrum, or _anything_ other than depression… and so Sherlock spiraled into an even more severe depression. He became suicidal, and then it happened.

Sherlock was sitting at his desk one afternoon trying to read through a chemistry textbook, but he hadn’t been paying attention, not really. The book had laid there untouched for hours, and Sherlock merely sat there with his hands in his lap, staring. He blinked rapidly several times as a voice came into the back of his mind. Not an actual voice, his own voice, but a thought, a background thought teetering on the very back edge of his mind that said _Mycroft has his straight edge in his overnight bag in his bedroom. He won’t be home for several more hours_. And just like that, without any active thought processes, it seemed, Sherlock stood up and calmly went to Mycroft’s room to retrieve his straight edge razor.

Mycroft came home early that afternoon because of an impending storm, and found Sherlock almost completely unconscious in the loo atop the toilet lid, leaning up against the vanity.

Six SSRIs and SNRIs later, Sherlock’s doctor decided that anti-depressants alone did not work for him, and instead decided to try a different anti-depressant drug classification along with a mood stabilizer. _A typical course of treatment seen with bipolar disorders_ , he was told.

Over the years, Sherlock noticed that he didn’t experience too many instances where he thought about harming himself quite so passively. Instead, it was more of an _escape_. It made him _happy_. Maybe not quite happy, but _content_. It was like a sigh of relief. If he got into a particularly bad row with Mycroft, or if he got in trouble at school, or if he was feeling too restless, Sherlock would simply go to his room and get the straight edge or a lighter or even a rubber band to snap against his wrist, and he would immediately feel calmer. He would sit there cross-legged on his bed, and a fuzzy lightness would conjure itself up in his head, between his eyes, and slowly make its way throughout Sherlock’s body. A feeling of peace, almost. It brought him comfort. Comfort in so many ways that no one else could provide, and so it always felt _right_. He had even begun sleeping with his new pocket knife under his pillow at night. It calmed him just to know that it was there, and Sherlock was convinced that it helped him sleep some nights. Sure, Sherlock was willing to concede that his mood stabilization wasn’t how it “should be”, and that maybe he had unhealthy rituals and eating and sleeping habits, but nothing was _wrong_ with him, and this coping mechanism of his certainly wasn’t wrong if it worked so well. Who was he hurting? He wasn’t trying to kill himself or crying out for attention. Sherlock just wanted that warm feeling it provided, the one that kind of tugged at his chest a little bit each time and made him feel like he was planted a little bit more firmly to where he was seated, made his vision just a tad bit more focused. Sherlock found ways to hide it better as he got older.

It was with all of this in mind and a slightly buzzed feeling floating around in Sherlock’s head that he suddenly became very confused when his straight edge razor was snatched out of his hand with a “what in the _fuck_ are you doing, Sherlock!”

“Hey!” Sherlock whined, immediately feeling a large ball of panic rising up in his chest as he stood up to try to lunge for John.

“Sit the fuck down,” John said coldly in that tone that John uses that meant there was absolutely no arguing. “What are you doing? Are you trying to…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “no, John,” he said, exasperated. “It _helps_ me.”

“No. You don’t get to roll your eyes at me and act like I’m the idiot here.”

Sherlock felt like crying, and he was fairly certain that John could see it written on his face. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He closed his mouth and deflated a bit. Where was John twenty years ago?

“It’s always helped me,” Sherlock said weakly, sounding pathetic. He didn’t know what else to say.

“How long have you been doing this?” John asked more calmly.

“Since I was 13.”

“Christ, what the fu--” John turned on his heel and threw open the bathroom door from Sherlock’s bedroom. He threw down the razor into the sink and ran his hands through his hair before finally turning back to look at Sherlock sitting on the edge of his bed from the doorway. "You know what I think? I think it’s an addiction. You’re an addict, Sherlock, and you just substitute one addiction for another, and God knows you’re so goddamn self-destructive, so how is this any different? You like how it makes you feel. That’s all it is. It was your first addiction. This can’t go on, Sherlock.” John said all of this bluntly, but gently at the same time. There was no spite in it, no disgust. Simple statements that John thought were true.

Suddenly Sherlock was angry. He was _furious_. He stood and strode over to John, towering over him. “Why do you _care_ , John? I’m not harming anyone. I’m not trying to off myself or seeking attention. It helps me _think_. And why don’t you _knock_ before barging in on someone!”

“ _You’re_ talking about boundaries and personal space? _Really_ , Sherlock?”

Sherlock was fuming. “Get out,” he said sternly through clenched teeth. John simply ignored him and continued to speak.

“This isn’t healthy, Sherlock. It’s not. Didn’t anyone tell you that growing up? Did anyone even _notice_?”

Sherlock hunched his shoulders. It was so hard for him to push John away sometimes regardless of how desperately he wanted to. He knew John cared, but sometimes he wished he didn’t. It would make things easier.

“They did at first,” Sherlock whispered. “I got better at hiding it. No one understood.”

“ _Why_ , Sherlock? Why do you do it?” John’s eyes were becoming glassy, and he was breathing rather fast, becoming increasingly upset. Sherlock didn’t understand why.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said. “I’ve never known why. It helps me. I don’t understand why you’re upset.”

“I’m upset bec-- it helps you with what?”

“When things get to be too much. When I _feel_ too much,” There, Sherlock had said it. He _feels_ things. He’s not some cold _machine_. He’s not. He’s always been the overly emotional, sentimental one of the Holmeses. That’s his problem. “I’m not a _machine_ , John. There, are you happy? Are you _satisfied_?” Sherlock sneered. John flinched at Sherlock’s words. He would never forgive himself for calling Sherlock that so long ago. “I’ve always felt too much since I was a child. ‘ _Caring is not an advantage_ ’ was Mycroft’s way of helping me deal with it. Mummy’s and Father’s way was taking me to different kinds of incompetent doctors, and nothing helped. So I built myself walls. I stored it away. And that works for me, John. It works for me, but sometimes it doesn’t, like today.” Sherlock was slowly starting to come apart at the seams. He could feel something in himself unraveling with every word he spoke. “I don’t understand why everyone has always been so upset about it. Why are you upset by it? I’m not harming anyone, and I’m not trying to kill myself. I don’t need anyone to _help_ me. I’m _fine_. It makes me feel grounded, and I can think. It’s much less self-destructive than going out and getting cocaine in order to gain the same effect, and-- Why are you shaking your head?”

John had his arms crossed over his chest, and he was looking at Sherlock with a sad and dumbstruck expression. Too sad of an expression. It was hurting Sherlock. Without a word, John closed the gap between the two of them and wrapped his arms around Sherlock. Sherlock simply stood there, confused for a moment with his arms at his sides before slowly returning John’s embrace.

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock said quietly near John’s ear.

“I know, love,” John answered, and kissed Sherlock’s cheek as he pulled away to look him in the eye. “It hurts _me_ , Sherlock, to know that you do this to yourself. And I know that it must’ve hurt your family if they were seeking help for you. You’re beautiful. You’re an amazing, brilliant man, and you’re…” John’s voice cracked a little, but he continued speaking, “and you’re cutting up your skin and hurting yourself in order to cope with what you’re feeling. It hurts me to see you doing that to yourself in the same way that it hurts me to know that you used drugs, that you don't have healthier ways of handling it. _You’re hurting yourself_ ,” John sounded so small and defeated by the time he finished speaking. “Do you understand?”

Sherlock still didn’t quite understand. In his mind, his self-harm was no different than smoking or going out for a pint after a long day at work, and he didn’t think he ever would understand. Sherlock didn’t want to hurt John even more, though, so he said nothing. Sherlock merely lifted his eyes from John to above his head instead.

“I love you. I don’t want to see you hurting. Tell me what’s wrong, maybe I can help. Or I can find someone who can,” John said desperately when Sherlock didn’t respond.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said again after a few moments of silence and looked back down to meet John’s eyes. He’s never known, not really. “I don’t know. I just feel like I need to right now.” After a quiet moment, Sherlock began to feel uneasy, a different kind of unease that he didn’t quite know how to name. He’s always been complete rubbish when it came to identifying his emotions. They tried working with him so hard in rehab, but it was a skill he has yet to master. Something in his chest clenched and pulled, and he felt himself begin to panic. He couldn’t lose John. Is that what this feeling was? Some sort of fear of abandonment?

“Don’t leave,” was all Sherlock said.

John softened then and his shoulders dropped in defeat, “I’m not going to leave, Sherlock,” he replied quietly. “How about this. I have an idea,” John held a finger up before he turned and walked out of the bedroom. A moment later, he returned with one of Sherlock’s notebooks that he frequently creates his mind maps in when he needs to get information _out_.

“I have a couple ideas, actually,” John said quickly, almost enthusiastically, as he sat down on the bed with Sherlock, and flipped to an empty page in the notebook. Sherlock, surprisingly, didn’t even mind that John had taken one of his notebooks -- _that could have had personal thoughts in it_ , Sherlock thought bitterly -- but watched John instead, somewhat hopeful but cautious.

“When I first came back after the war,” John began again without looking up, “When I was feeling… you know… and I started seeing Ella. We came up with a list of things to do instead when I had thoughts of hurting myself,” John finished. “So let’s try it, yeah?” John said hopefully and looked up to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “If you want, that is,” he added quickly.

“... Alright,” Sherlock said cautiously after a moment.

“Alright,” John said enthusiastically, his eyes brightening a little at the chance to help Sherlock with something, to be _useful_. That look in John’s eyes that he gets, that alone is something that warms Sherlock’s heart.

“There are smaller things and some bigger things. Some smaller things you could do, you could play your violin, you know that screechy thing you do when you want Mycroft to leave,” John offered first with a small lopsided grin, trying to ease into this. “Go out and explore somewhere, or go get lost in that library you love. _Or_ \--” John brightened a moment as if he just got the _best_ idea. “You could start painting. It’s similar to playing an instrument. We could get you some canvas and nice brushes, or you know, Ella said that she had known someone who hung up huge white bed sheets on the wall and would throw paint at it,”

“Painting,” Sherlock muttered and blinked a few times when John smiled. “Maybe painting,” he offered quietly. Sherlock watched as John wrote down _painting_ on the piece of paper in his terrible doctor’s script. “Some bigger things you can do instead, you could take an ice cube over the place where you’d like to harm. It’s uncomfortable and would cause a bit of pain. Or take a pen or marker over that spot. You could snap a rubber band against your wrist.”

“Isn’t that counterproductive?” Sherlock asked as he lifted an eyebrow.

John shrugged, “Some people think so, others don’t since it isn’t as severe and isn't somewhat permanent. It’s just an unpleasant sensation. It was just an idea.” Sherlock found himself nodding minutely. “If you’d rather not keep it to yourself sometimes, you could write me a note or send me a text. I won’t judge you, of course,” John added gently. “I just don’t want you to feel like you’re alone. I understand some of what you’re going through. I mean--” John sucked in a breath and backpedaled. “What I mean is, I know that our situations are different, I don’t know what you’re going through, but I understand the kinds of thoughts and how they manifest, you know? And how it feels when you get those thoughts.”

Sherlock looked away from John for a second and gently took the notebook away as he blinked a few times. Sherlock tore a small strip of paper from the page John had been writing on and plucked the pen from John’s hand. He scribbled something down, folded it in half, and handed it to John.

_I appreciate you more than you know._


End file.
